Vignettes told over Tea
by YourMCee
Summary: A series of Pre-Reichenbach vignettes, recalled by a post-Reichenbach John whilst sharing some tea with Mrs. Hudson- some serious, some light-hearted. Memories have taught John the truth behind the idiom, "Hindsight is 20-20 vision." Third Person.
1. An Introduction of Earl Grey

John didn't take sugar in his tea. Or in his coffee, for that matter- he never acquired that much of a sweet tooth. But as he set the tea-tray down on the mug-stained coffee table, the tiny white clumps shifted and formed a small hill in the silver sugar-bowl. Sitting next to it, there was a minuscule pitcher of cream, a round, grey-stained teapot, a nearly uselessly-sized spoon, and two matching teacups, off to the side and in isolation of each other.

He cleared his throat as he sat down in the armchair, shifting his weight forward so that he could take to pouring the tea. The earl grey tumbled from the spout to the fist first porcelain cup, and the room echoed the liquid tune, but in a weak, lethargic manner. A few beats of silence, then the passage repeated for the second.

The pot made a lighter sound when it touched the tray again. It was then that the silver cutlery, ignored until then, was suddenly brought to attention. One spoon, a dull glimmer in the hazy afternoon, sent to disturb the little powdered pile: scoop, over, deposit, return, scoop, and deposit again. Finally- some musical tinkling gave the room some depth.

_Tin-tin-ting, tin-tin-ting, tin-tin-ting. Ting, tink._

It was almost like he had rung a dinner bell., as no sooner did he set the spoon back down on the tray, then did the sound of footsteps falling ring in response to the call from the stairway up to the flat. John turned his head, eyes regarding the doorway with thought. When the florally-garbed, lamb-like woman stuck her head through curiously, his head dipped in a cheerful nod.

"Ah, Mrs. Hudson!" He gave a welcoming gesture. "You're back early- I thought you were visiting your family until next Friday?"

The woman pattered into the cluttered room with tiny footsteps, John able to see her examining the state of the flat out of the corner of her eyes. "Oh yes. Well, there was a bit of a dispute, actually, first day I arrived… figured I better not overstay my welcome."

John gave an empathetic shake of his head. When he saw her eyes threaten to dart into the kitchen, nearly a warzone with disorganized books, jars, and things John has long since lost track of, he could not help but smile. "The flat has seen better days, that's for sure."

Mrs. Hudson sighed. "Are… well, are you thinking of doing some tidying up anytime soon?"

"Of course," John finally rose to his feet, heading back into the kitchen, "Just hang on- I'll get you a cup and saucer."

"Oh," John heard the surprise in her voice, a slight distortion in its tone. "This other one here, then… it's not for me?"

There were a few moments of silence as he returned to the room with a third, mismatching-patterned teacup. He left her a few moments to think, before he poured her tea, adding a few lumps of sugar and offering it to her with a genuine smile. "This one's mine."

She was not someone who bit her lip when thinking, as much as she curled her lip. Just as she was doing now- an amiable facial expression, the curl of her lip resembling a sheepish smile. "Thank you, dear."

Now came the interesting part. She accepted the saucer, threatening to have the brimming cup spill its contents over the porcelain ridge, but she only shifted her wight slightly from where she stood. John saw her facial expression. Guessing her thoughts was as easy as reading a book, given the circumstances. Her choice of seating was a crucial choice, in her mind. John saw her attention flick over to the soft arm-chair recliner across from him. _Would she dare take it?_

John was fairly confident in his answer to that question. "Would you not like a seat? Your hip is still bothering you nowadays, no?"

He had given her a bone, and she snatched it up without a moment's hesitation. "Oh no, dear now. Don't make a fuss- just need something I don't sink into. Something a little more stable."

They wheeled over the little desk chair, and she perched on the edge of it like an attentive parrot, taking gingerly sips from the still scalding tea.

"Well then, is there anything else that Dr. Watson can help you with today, other than your daily sugar intake?" He rolled of the sleeves of his sweater, the room warming up nicely with the hot beverages. "Sorry I don't have any biscuits or something to offer you, though I am sure that they'd be put to shame by your baking."

Mrs. Hudson made a bashful wave, but her face had soon grown serious as John took an innocent gulp from his cup. "I've got a really… a truly serious question for you. And I don't want you to give me the same answer you do everyday. Okay?"

_Good. Didn't feel like small talk anyways._

"How are you doing?"

John gave a quick smirk. He knew this was coming. "I'm sorry to disappoint you, but today I am just as I was yesterday."

She looked at him.

He smiled.

"And how is that exactly?"

"Perfectly alright, thanks for asking. And how are you?"

He somewhat regretted the jeer that when he saw the face she made, a mixture of irritation and confusion. "John, I'm really worried about you. You… do you know that I can hear you?"

He blinked. "Hear me? Hear me when?"

There it was- that lip curl again. "I can hear you talking. Talking when there is nobody up there, but… you're not just talking to yourself."

He wouldn't allow his face to twitch even in the slightest movement.

"You still talk to him, don't you?" Her voice had turned very thin and saturated with emotion. "You sometimes yell a lot. I can hear you laugh then, too, and…"

John took another drink, staring down into the dark liquid as she spoke. When she hesitated, he lifted his head a little higher before he responded. "And?"

She opened her mouth a little wider for a moment, but seemingly lost her response.

"If it is bothering you, Mrs. Hudson, I can keep my voice down. It carries fairly well, doesn't it?"

"John…" she had a firm frown pressed against her face now, but she still did not say anything else.

He knew what she was thinking, and _she_ knew that he knew, but he was going to have her say it.

But to his surprise, she remained quiet and supped away at the tea, until the cup was well empty and she just twiddled with the handle in her lap.

He let himself fall back into the silence, and wondered how long she would last. He had finished his cup as well, and occupied himself by apparently finding a particularly interesting pattern in the wallpaper, but the furrow in his brow suggested more serious cerebral activity.

It wasn't long before she gave in.

"You are thinking hard about something."

"Normally, yes." He didn't even move his eyes.

"Good lord, John, are you doing this on purpose?"

"What now?" There was not a ripple of anxiety in his voice as he looked up.

"It's… you remind me so much of him."

_Still won't say his name..._ "People who spend a lot of time together do normally tend to pick up each other's habits, mannerisms…"

"You know perfectly well that "normally" isn't really an applicable word here."

"He'll be flattered."

Silence.

_Ah, finally noticed the verb tense, have we?_ "Anything else I can get for you, Mrs. Hudson?"

Now she was getting a little more than irritated. "I'm not getting out of here jut yet."

He smiled, a fair measure of sarcasm woven into his voice, "Of course not."

"We need to talk."

"It would seem."

"Then explain it to me."

"Explain what?"

"Ah…" she stumbled, "…you know perfectly well what."

"Do I?" his face was now echoing the sarcastic tone, "Because I don't believe we've mentioned the subject that needs to be talked about once during this whole little tea-time."

She gave an irritated huff. "John, it is more than obvious."

"Hmm, and yet it is _you_ who continues to avoid putting it into words. Maybe I'm just reading this wrong, but that makes it seem a little more likely that it is your problem, and that you need to do the talking."

She sat up a little straighter. "Well, you haven't said anything either."

"Oh, I can if you'd like." He gave an grim little smile.

"Please do." Her voice had gone thin again, but this time the hurt was visible.

"Your problem is that you think I'm crazy- that I am in denial with the fact that Sherlock decided to throw himself off a building while I stood and watched. Well, let me put your mind at rest: I'm not in denial."

Her face relaxed slightly, before contorting into a look of bewilderment. "Then what-"

"You all have the problem wrong, sorry. I can't keep silent anymore, so let me let you in on a little secret… Sherlock is not dead."

Surprised is what came to mind when he saw her face, but it wasn't just that. There was pity, maybe a bit of disappointment too. "John… I know it's a strange concept, but… you… how can he be alive?"

"By not being dead. And Sherlock Holmes is not dead. Therefore, he's alive." He gave his reasoning as if he were a practiced college professor.

"John, you said that you saw it yourself. You were the only person there who saw the whole thing… that Lestrade fellow-"

He pulled himself forward in the chair, whispering as if there was someone in proximity of eavesdropping. "Would you like me to tell you what I saw that day? What it was I saw lying on the street?"

Her face said _no_, but her mouth said nothing.

"The ground was cement-paved. His head must've hit the ground first, with the amount of blood there was. From the height that he fell, that sort of contusion should have killed a man instantly. His hair was slick with blood… when they turned him over, his eyes were like a corpse- lifeless, pale, dilated. I even took his pulse…" he mirrored the action on his own wrist. "Nothing."

He was nearly tempted to laugh when he saw the look on her face.

"Just wait, I haven't finished yet. What I'm trying to say is, I know a corpse when I see one, and on the sidewalk that day, in broad daylight, that was a corpse."

Mrs. Hudson looked beyond terrified now.

"It would take Sherlock Holmes himself to fool me, Mrs. Hudson." He sat back in the chair, a smug look across his face.

"Oh dear…" she rubbed her hands against her face, trying to wipe away the ugly melangé of emotions, eventually revealing a comforting but sad smile. "It is true. If there was anyone in the world who could pull it off, it'd be Sherlock, that's for sure…"

"…but you and everyone else seem content to just deem his as dead."

"No." She shook her head in a never-ending back-and-forth motion. "No, it's not like that."

"Don't bother." John sighed and waved away her words. "I've given up trying to convince you- all of you- since day one. I know no one will believe me. He does too."

"John, if it _was_ true, why would he do such a thing? Why wouldn't he tell us or… or come back after it was done? Where is he now, then?"

"Seemingly no reason for this, right?" John leaned forward again with the climb of excitement, "See, it's perfect. If he gave us obvious answers, then of course we'd suspect him to be alive, and if he needed to be dead and everyone suspected him to be alive, that wouldn't really work in his favour, now would it?"

"I… I suppose. But, you said that in the end… he told you… he claimed that he…"

Now John's face drew in tight. "Don't you even begin to try and tell me you believe a word of it. That Sherlock's some sort of big impostor. That he was a coward who would off himself like that, like some sort of over-romamtacized character. Sherlock's dramatic, I'll give him that, but he'd never do something like that if he didn't get to see the results. No point in doing it if he didn't get to enjoy the looks on our faces."

"You still believe in him then, John?"

"Until the day I die."

_A confession?_ It certainly felt like one.

Mrs. Hudson inhaled slowly, and a shadow of acceptance fell on her visage. "You sweet thing… you still make his tea."

"Oh, sweetness doesn't come into it, I'm afraid. Old habits die hard, and my habit is to always forget the sugar." He paused, but it was apparently still his turn. "I'm going to fix that, one way or another."

For a peculiar moment, John was overly aware of the tone of his voice, and he found himself agitated by his words that clung to the silence of the room.

"But dear… you do realize… well, that he's not _here_?" Mrs. Hudson had to drag the words from her throat.

"You know what? Sometimes I think I forget. There are times when he doesn't talk for hours so… I'm not sure. The silence can fool me, I suppose."

"He had entire conversations with you while you were gone, somedays. I'd come in to check up on him- how he was doing, see if he'd set any fires, shot the walls again, you know-and he'd just have his face pressed to his microscope, making remarks to the air."

"Mmm." John nodding knowingly. "Sometimes I wonder if I was just a façade for him somedays. Mustn't have been very useful if I could do my job without being there."

"Oh." Mrs. Hudson smiled, "Don't be too sure about that. If I ever interrupted him while he was thinking, aloud or not, usually the first thing he'd do was look at me as if I were an alien of some sort. Then he'd ask '_Where's John?'_ Obviously I was not was he expected… less suited for whatever he was asking you about."

John gave a scoff. "Well, I you ever find out what makes me special, be sure to let me know."

His eyes wandered away once more as his thoughts drew away their focus. Mrs. Hudson shook her head again, as if in disbelief. "So you really aren't doing this intentionally then? Acting like him?"

"Well, if I was trying, I could do much better than this. Just give me a second-" he sat himself up, straight-backed, giving his since grown military haircut a good ruffle, scrunching his face into a serious expression, and pressing his two hands together, index fingers under his chin, in an almost prayer-like pose. "Middle-aged woman, twice divorced, probably more than three kids, all in university. Minimum-salary job, obviously stressing about money issues based on her premature facial wrinkles, greyed hairs and the scuff of dirt on her left shoe."

Mrs. Hudson gave a forced laugh, but John could appreciate the effort.

"Mmm." He returned to his normal voice, but his face retained the stern expression. "No, I haven't got it quite right yet. I have to be a bit more of a condescending bastard."

The smile flew off Mrs. Hudson's face once again- John couldn't help but think of how often it had changed expressions in the last half-hour. "You're still angry at him, then?"

"Of course I am. Had he been dead, we wouldn't have a problem- I'd know he was buried under six feet of soil next to that headstone with his name on it. But now he could be on the fourteenth moon of Jupiter, for all we can tell."

_Although that's hardly likely._ He couldn't help but chuckle a little at the distress he could imagine his flatmate would have were he condemned to live on such an isolated and uninteresting, irrelevant place.

"But where _could_ he be? Where would he have to go that would call for him to fake his own death?"

"Be damned if I know." John massaged his temple as he spoke. "For all we are aware, he could be right under our noses."

"John… you aren't going to go… looking for him, are you?" This time, Mrs. Hudson actually did bite her lip.

"No." Her assured her. "No... that wouldn't do me any good, wandering around blindly in search of a man who does not want to be found. No, I'll need to figure out _how_ he did it before _why_."

"It's a case then?" He piped up excitedly, her hair giving a little bounce.

"Mmm. He must've had some sort of planning, some way to make it all work. Even he couldn't pull this off alone… the question is, who would he let in on this? Who did find trustworthy enough?"

"And why wasn't it you?"

John was unfazed. "That should be a clue right there. He wanted to keep me in the dark- you too. Why is keeping us out of this so important? Then who would he be able to trust to not reveal his secret?"

From the expression on Mrs. Hudson's face, John suspected that she had not even considered the idea. Of course, she was going the list now- Lestrade, Mycroft… who would he have conceded assistance from? Friends were not something Sherlock had in great quantities.

"There's one thing for sure," she set her teacup down, next to the long-since cold brew in Sherlock's untouched one, "I do hope he will come home soon. It's far too uninteresting as it is now."

"Oh, so you believe my theory, then? I'm not buying it. Nor will anyone else- save your effort."

"Ah-"

"Please. For the better. You think he's dead, so continue to act as such. It'll work better for him anyways."

Mrs. Hudson resembled a fish for a moment as she opened and closed her mouth with no sounds to produce words. "You want me to think of you as mad then?"

"To be perfectly honest," John pushed the sleeves of his sweater down his arms again, "With all that I've said today, I'd think _you_ insane if you thought anything otherwise."

The wind took the weather-torn shutters and dropped them lazily back on the building with a series of rhythmic claps, and out of the corner of his eye John saw the small marks of raindrops begin to splatter on the windowpane.

"…I think he said that to me once before." Mrs. Hudson professed pensively. He raised his eyebrow with an air of remembering something he had forgotten to remember. He set down his own saucer and cup, sinking back into the back of his chair as if in preparation for a long sit.

"Mrs. Hudson, did you ever see Sherlock when he got his migraines?"


	2. In which Sherlock has Migraines

It was about ten o'clock at night, and a thin, dry one at that. John was more than happy to return to the humidified building, but had not even been given the opportunity to drop the keys to the flat back into his coat pocket when the voice addressed him.

"Turn around and leave."

The timbre of the voice sounded familiar, without a doubt, but it was the tone that struck him as foreign. He must have been mistaken. He had shrugged one sleeve of his jacket off his shoulder when he began to form a reply. "Who-"

"John, just listen to me and leave."

So he hadn't been hallucinating. It was Sherlock's voice, saturated with some sort of…

_…panic? That can't be right._

"I don't understand, what's-" He spoke hushed and tentatively, but again the voice cut him off before he could complete his thoughts, the thick tremors of emotion making the words barely coherent.

"Get out. Stop whatever it is you are doing. Don't make another noise, and get out."

But of course, John wasn't about to go anywhere. He felt that strange tug of emotions rise from within his stomach- a strange balance of anticipation, curiosity and anxiety, with the delicate trimmings of fear weaving them altogether. Already his mind was leaping to conclusions-

_Something's wrong. I've never heard his voice so strained and panicked. Is there someone in the flat? Has he been taken hostage? No- why would his captor allow him to give me such open signals of distress? Why would he not try to signal me in some of those covert ways he's always going on about? But maybe he's too distraught to even think… that certainly doesn't sound like Sherlock. But then… the threat must be great._

He had by now crept up behind the door from where Sherlock's voice resonated. He silently cursed himself for not having carried his pistol with him, but when he paused to listen against the door, he could only strain to hear one set of agitated breathing. Instantly, the unmanned threats came to mind- images of poisoned bottles on silver trays, hair-pin trigger guns concealed within unmarked packages, aerosol toxins fogging the air, and wires entangled in every direction, attaching to an unorthodoxly large amount of plastic explosive.

_No time to think._ "Sherlock, what's going on?"

He stepped through the doorway, entering into one of the most terribly tangible silences he could remember. Immediately his instincts deemed it appropriate to heed Sherlock's warning and make a prompt break for the door, but his eyes betrayed his impulse. The flat was a mess- although that was hardly a change from its normal state of tidiness. But this was immediately identified as a different sort of chaos- where books had previously been laid askew on every inch of available surface, they had accumulated in a pile of curling pages and bent covers in one corner of the room. On the counter space that was then left free, there now stood a surmountable collection of glass beakers and phials, either half-full with some unappealing substance, or thinly coated with some residue of what they previously held.

It took John a moment to detect what else caused the unrest in his perception of the flat-

_The lights._

When he glanced up, he noticed that two of the three floodlights attached to the ceiling were absent- rather, the bulbs that used to light the room had shattered into infinitesimally small, powder-like particles of glass that dusted the floor beneath the fixture. With only one bulb remaining, and the windows and curtains drawn shut, the flat was cast into a strange level of shadow play.

It was for this reason that John had difficulty, at first, in spotting his flatmate. When his attention was finally brought back to the kitchen, he saw the huddled form sitting on the ground, backed up against one of the cabinets, both hands clasped firmly on either temple. Surprising enough as this strange sight was, highlights amongst the dim lighting claimed that Sherlock had something of a blindfold tied around his head too.

"My God…" John was barely conscious of uttering the words, but he saw how the other's face contorted in irritation as a result.

"John, this will be the last time I ask you, so please don't make me waste my breath. Get out of the flat this instant."

Obeying was never an option. He raised his voice in determination. "No. First you are going to tell me what in the _hell_ is going on here!"

"_Shut up_!" The sudden shriek made John's pulse skip a beat. "Don't… say another word. Don't speak, don't breathe, don't think in here. Just get out. My patience is gone and my control thinning."

His threats didn't scare him as much as they alarmed him._ What has him so desperate?_ He dropped the volume of his voice again, trying to keep himself stoic in demeanour. "I have the right to know what is going on here before I do. What happened to the flat? The lights are broken and- wait. Is the refrigerator unplugged?"

Sherlock made a seething noise through his teeth, hands pulling his hair as his back muscles drew taught, pushing himself even tighter against the cabinet. "Yes. It's unplugged- question answered. Now _LEAVE_."

At least John was getting somewhere. "You're in pain. What's going on? What happened?"

"Stop asking the same questions!" He spat the words with such anger that one of his bent legs gave a twitch. "Most _excellent_ observations on your part, John. Yes, I am in pain, mystery solved, thank you! Now please, do help ease my pain, and return to some other location."

_So there's no lack of ridicule, at least._ "Is that what all of this is about? You've gotten a bloody headache?"

Sherlock released his head at this statement, confirming John's initial suspicions of a blindfold- a makeshift one, from what looked to be from the sleeve of a black polyester shirt. "Not just a headache. A migraine, and a particularly unpleasant one at that. So you will have to excuse me if I am not exactly in the mood for conversation at the moment."

John tilted his head to the side as he regarded the slightly writhing form of his flatmate on the ground, fingers flexing in every direction, lines of discomfort tracing across his partially hidden face. "You mean to tell that you have ripped apart our entire flat because your head hurts?"

Sherlock slammed one fist to the ground, kicking himself upwards into a standing potion with a half-suppressed noise John could only think to describe as a growl. He half-expected him to lunge angrily at him, but instead the detective took his strides to the opposite end of the kitchen, his blindfold untouched, and reached his arm up to tear down the analog wall clock that had previously hung there. He scraped his fingers along the back of the clock until they finally found the battery cradle, and promptly removed the triple-A from its former position. Battery and clock alike were dropped, clattering nosily to the ground at his feet, prompting another pained face contortion. With half-silenced heavy breaths, he waited for the echoes of the clattering plastic to fade away before he answered the question, a dark vehemence in the way he snarled. "I don't think you are capable of understanding this, John. Silence is paramount now, so with whatever compassion your bear for me, please leave me alone."

John frowned. _Leaving Sherlock alone in the flat to thrash about in agony for who knows how long certainly doesn't sound like any sort of compassion to me._ "This sounds serious. If you are in this much pain, you should take some medicine-"

"Oh yes, I do think a measly bottle of aspirin shall be very effective, doctor. About as useful as a lobotomy." Sherlock had a now taken to leaning over the kitchen's island, chest heaving and neck rolling as he spoke.

"What about…" The doctor hesitated, giving a quick pass of his tongue over his lips before he became certain of his words. "…would a dose of morphine do any good?"

All of the twitching and shifting came to a momentary halt, though John suspected that beneath the blindfold Sherlock's eyes were flicking about, as they often did when he considered options laid before him. He inhaled a slow, deep breath, and his own pink tongue drew a line across his lips- a strange sight, for he had no such habit. "I… I shouldn't. I told myself I wouldn't use it again."

His flatmate was only partially surprised. "So nicotine isn't the only bit of recreation that you've indulged in, then."

Sherlock's head turned to face John, but the blindfold hid whatever emotion his eyes were trying to convey. "Don't patronize me. You see this- what happens to me when I don't have work. It can get worse than this too. Beyond the point of sheer physical pain. The ideas that come to a desperate man… can be truly horrifying- and desperate is not a term I am throwing about lightly. Nor is that a time I am readily wanting to remember."

At these words, a piece of dialogue that John had shared with a one Sergeant Donovan come to the front of his mind, but his quickly disregarded it._ At least he's stopped telling me to leave or shut up._ "The high occupied your mind, did it then?"

"Only in the most superficial way," he began to pace the tiled floor, hands twitching as he adjusted the knot in his blindfold, and half-swallowing his words as he spoke, "But it certainly was better than the alternative. That mundane sheet of grey, stretching out before me, to no visible ends. No work for ages, my studies going nowhere useful…"

John nearly took the elongated pause that followed as his cue to respond, but the tall form lifted a hand in a muted cue for silence as he raised the other shaking palm against his face, eventually beginning to use his thumb and index finger to massage his temples. After a minute, his ragged breathing drew slightly calmer.

"It grew out of control. Eventually, the cases started to return, but they were all dull. Nothing piqued my interest- it seemed that my brain was content to spend the rest of its days being sucked dry by some narcotic. You may think of me as ignorant at times, John, but I'm not an idiot. I'm aware of the deterioration that comes along with prolonged use." He swiveled his neck left, right, then left again, in an almost exaggerated motion of shaking away the proposition. "It was not an easy feat to get me off of that drug. I do not want to go down that path again".

It was now John's turn to draw in a deep breath. He idly stroked at his face, trying to think of his next move. "I don't suppose sleep is a feasible thing for you, then?"

"Not in the slightest."

"What about a tranquilizer?"

"Benzodiazepines? Likely to wretch it up."

"I meant by injection."

The detective cast the doctor a blind glance once again, but judging by the furrow of his half-hidden brow, John was convinced it was a suspicious one. "Midazolam, I assume. You have some readily available?"

"Yes."

"How did it come to be in your possession?"

"I- that's not relevant right now," John snapped back quickly. "Are you interested or not?"

Sherlock's mouth hung slightly agape, adam's apple bobbing as he swallowed painfully, eyes examining his companion through the dark cloth. "John, if you're-"

But the second half of the sentence was transformed into an unintelligible noise of agony, and with one careless spasm of his arm, the pained man sent a beaker- thankfully empty- flying across the room to shatter against the functionless refrigerator. His teeth gave a horrid grinding sound as his breathing surpassed irregular, and became a complete hyperventilation. His head swayed from side to side again, but this time with a more pitiable expression on his face.

"D-Do it then." He gasped at the floor, arms shaking as they supported his weight on the countertop.

John was caught by surprise. "What?"

There was a hollow noise from Sherlock's throat before the response came. "I give up. I… I can't do it, John. I can't st… stand it any longer. _Make. It. Stop._"

The hot breaths that he used to articulate the last three words had sweat forming on the doctor's brow. "Lay down on the couch."

John gestured vacantly towards the other room, but his flatmate did not seem inclined to move. Tentatively, he grabbed for his arm, which flinched at the touch, but then fell still. Sherlock's entire body did, in fact- John noted in breathless bewilderment the disturbing smirk that twitched on the detective's otherwise motionless lips, and the thin line of liquid that began to escape through the bottom of the blindfold. He took away his hand from the arm, and for a moment there was the most peculiar silence.

But only a moment. A sharp inhale- "Don't just stand there, dammit! Get the syringe already!"

John broke out of his mesmerized state, retreating quickly to his room without another word. He flung open drawers and cupboards until he found the syringe case and small plastic bottle for which he searched. When he returned to the sitting room with his spoils, Sherlock was already stretched out on the chesterfield, struggling to roll up his left sleeve.

"Here, stop that." He ordered when the kelt down next to the piece of furniture, pushing away the helpless hand and rolling up the sleeve himself, exposing the thin vein that shook along with the rest of the arm.

"Give it here," Sherlock could only whine to articulate the words, "I'll do it myself."

"Like hell you are." John gave an audible scoff. "Your arms are shaking bad enough as it is, you'd likely stick me instead- could you _keep still_?"

He could see the effort on Sherlock's already agonized face as he attempted to do so, but the arm still shook with tiny tremors. John frowned even more. His medical training scolded him for not having something with which to sterilize the injection site, but he knew the risks were minimal anyways. He removed the syringe and needle from the case, puncturing a hole in the cup of the tiny bottle to draw up the colourless liquid. He lined up the tip of the point to a patch of skin adjacent to the tensed vein, while he steadied the sinewy arm with his right hand. But even once ready, he hesitated, giving another lick of his dried lips. "Sherlock, I-"

"Just… g-go." The response sounded as if he was admitting defeat. His writhing was beginning again, the aguish still clearly pressed on his face.

_No need to ask a third time, then._

Sherlock's arm gave a significant twitch as the needle broke the thin layer of skin, a noise of slight surprise escaping his lips; but as John slowly eased the piston down, depositing the liquid into that tiny bloodstream, the noise changed into a soft, elongated and raptured sigh. One by one, his tight muscles began to loosen and unwind, and Sherlock's body sunk back deep into the couch. Beneath the blindfold, John saw his eyelids give a small flutter, and the lines of his visage fade away. When the injection was complete, he tugged the syringe out of his companion's arm, returning it to its case with a mental note to deal with it later. Then, as if in an afterthought, he picked up the small plastic bottle and made quick work of removing the label. Glancing back at the couch, he thought he caught Sherlock's gaze on him for a fraction of a second, but the blindfold revealed nothing.

It was hard not to hide his satisfaction as he moved to turn the last remaining light off. The shadow of Sherlock's form grasped at his left wrist, individually flexing each of the fingers on the hand attached to it.

_Sleep it is, then,_ he decided, turning to his own room with a yawn.

-x-x-x-

"I know what you did."

John could honestly saw he'd never awoken to that statement before. When he rolled over to see Sherlock perched upright on his unused pillow, arms wrapped around his knees as he continued in a staring contest with the wall, he was not in the least bit surprised. Normally, he would have questioned the other man's blatant disregard of personal space, but he had learned quickly that 'normally' was never applicable. Instead, he replied jeeringly, "Good to hear you are feeling better."

"That's not of concern at the moment," John smiled at the absence of panic in the familiarly analytical voice, "What we must address now is the problem that you've placed me in."

Brilliant. "That's a strange way of thanking me. What problem might this be?"

"Please drop the act. I have no patience for this. That was not midazolam, nor a benzodiazepine of any sort that you gave me, and we both know it."

"Right…" the doctor pulled himself upright and stepped out of his bed, stretching his arms behind his back without making any eye contact with his flatmate. "So what is our problem, then?"

Sherlock stood upright as well- John suspected to remind him of their height difference, as he often did when he felt challenged. His voice dropped down to his lower register, not a hint of hesitation in his words. "You do realize that I am likely to relapse now? That I'm probably going to fall back into that state of mind- the desperate, broken state, the one that took ages to dig myself out of… do you realize the severity of what you have done?"

The words were cold and accusing, but John had expected no less. "Yes, I am perfectly aware. But I'm not sure that you are."

It was coming- that rare look was threatening to pass over Sherlock's face, and he wasn't about to miss it. Time to savour it. "John, you mean you didn't-"

"-give you a dose of morphine, pretending it was a harmless tranquilizer? No. No I did not."

_And there it is._ The perplexed expression on the partially drugged face was beyond satisfying for John. One side of his mouth opened in an uncontrollable grin- one that Sherlock immediately noted and so returned to his stoic gaze. "I never said that is what I suspected."

"Oh, but it was, wasn't it?" John was giddy with his victory, "What else were you to suspect? I had just offered you morphine, which you declined, and then I suddenly offer another injected drug which I just so happened to come into possession of conveniently for a time such as this? Of course it could only be the doctor-turned-pitying friend, willing to give you the very drug that you were addicted to under the guise of a harmless sedative, hoping you wouldn't relapse if you weren't aware of what it was you were given."

His cheek twitched slightly in irritation, but only because he was being proven wrong. After a moment, though, his frown turned into a small smile. "Oh John, you're a smart one… impudent, too. You think you can bluff your way into preventing my relapse and make me think I got it wrong? Bold. Very clever… I nearly fell for it."

"Nope." John responded with a chuckle, never happier to deny claims to his high intelligence. "I don't need to bluff. What I gave you was neither a benzodiazepine nor a dose of morphine."

Sherlock's smile faded away. "Impossible. I keep a record of all medication and drugs in your possession, and I know for a fact that you have several doses of morphine available.

"Yes, for medicinal purposes, if the need arises. But count up my stock, and you won't find a dose missing, I can tell you that."

The detective blinked. "But you have nothing else to give via injection."

"And that," John pointed his finger victoriously at his flatmate, "Is where you are wrong. Up until a certain point, that was true. But, after working in the clinic, sometimes I find excess doses slipping into my coat pockets… force of habit, I suppose, to pocket everything that goes unused."

The pale, analyzing eyes grew wide with comprehension as he brought up his left wrist to examine with closer inspection. John merely shrugged.

"Normally, I return them back to the clinic the next day, but… I didn't think it could hurt for you to have your Diphtheria vaccine a little early. You were probably coming near due for it anyways." His eyes wandered around the room innocently. "Might be a little sore for a day or two, and you might feel more tired than usual."

What astonished John was not Sherlock's prompt exit from the room, but the fact that as he did so, John have sworn he was…_ laughing?_

"Hold up," he followed him back to the sitting room. "You're not angry?"

Sherlock turned around, grinning from cheek to cheek. "Why on Earth would I be angry?"

_Does he really expect me to answer that?_ "Uh, normally when Sherlock Holmes is proven wrong, he goes into a fit of minor rage and denial, because Sherlock Holmes is never, _ever_ wrong."

"More than anything, I'm impressed." He did not have the look of a liar. In fact, he seemed genuinely pleased. "Who knew that the placebo effect could work on me? Also- tricking me into suspecting you of the wrong thing… just _brilliant_, really. Brilliant work, John."

"...okay. I must be insane. This doesn't sound right- you mean to say that you are actually admitting that I outsmarted you?"

"Oh. Well…"

John rolled his eyes. "Of course."

"…_technically_ you managed to out-smart me while I was in a mentally unstable state, because otherwise, I would have undoubtedly seen through your ruse at the start. But really, fantastic work for being able to do that much."

"Right." John sighed in exasperation. "I finally do something right, finally manage to beat you, and it doesn't count because you were partially brain dead at the time?"

"Precisely." Sherlock smiled. "See, you are getting smarter every day! Now, have you seen my violin? I fear I might have broken one of the strings while I was afflicted…"

"The empty case is here, but… there's something else bothering me."

The consulting detective made not a sound in response, taking to his hands and knees to search beneath an armchair for the instrument.

"Sherlock, are you listening?"

"No. Would you like me to? Can it wait until later? I'm somewhat busy…"

"Seriously now. This ruse might have worked this time, but do you honestly expect me to give you your flu shot if this happens again? I don't think it'll be quite as effective next time…"

His words fell upon deaf ears as Sherlock peeled open a curtain, finding his bow leaning against the window sill. "Aha! The companion cannot be too far away now…"

"Is this going to be a normal thing? Another thing I'm going to have to worry about? There is only so much I can handle, and the human legs in the freezer are bad enough… oh _god_, the freezer!" John's eyes lit up in terror as he dashed over to the large machine moved aside so that its plug could be removed from the wall socket. He bent over and managed to re-connect the two, a soft hum starting up in the gigantic box. "If any of your body parts have gone and decomposed because of this stunt, it's _your_ job to get rid of them!"

He looked back over his shoulder as he called out to find the violinist with his instrument under his chin, drawing the bow across each string individually to tune them. John sighed, returned to his feet, and set the coffee machine on for some brew to wake his fatigued self. He did not expect Sherlock to respond.

Yet he did. "I'm not sure."

John blinked. "What?"

"I'm not sure if it will happen again. Or, if it does, what I am going to do." He played his major triad, frowned, and returned to his tuning, obviously not satisfied. "This is the first time it has happened since we've moved in."

"Are they always this bad?"

"Often."

"As bad as you make them out to be?"

Sherlock hesitated, played a G major scale, before letting the instrument drop from beneath his chin. "Just imagine, if you will, the average person's brain opposite of mine. I'm sure that there are many differences that we could spend all day describing, but in short I suppose you could say mine is… _more_. More used, more efficient, more high-maintenance… likewise, the simple migraine that you can imagine for the average person gets equally amplified. My brain is like a high-performing machine- it will not be able to keep its performance unless it is regularly used, and used properly. If my brain isn't satisfied with the workload it receives, it starts to go off and do other things- sometimes harmless… other times, not. Other times, it just begins to attack itself, ripping itself to pieces out of boredom… and for someone like me, John, someone so lost in the inner workings of my thoughts and the thought process, imagine just how painfully aware I would be of that near apoptosis."

John couldn't even begin to imagine, but the point was made clear enough. "Then what can we do? Is there any treatment?"

"I'd be compelled to agree that this ruse won't work a second time- and please, even if I appear to be in the most awful of agonies, don't allow me to be indulged in my morphine addiction again."

"Prevention is the best cure, I suppose." John took his seat opposite of Sherlock's armchair. "It's boredom that causes the migraines then?"

"Yes."

"But you've been bored before, and you didn't rip apart the flat."

"A more extreme case of boredom."

"You were fine when I left you in the morning." John remarked. "What happened?"

Sherlock had taken his seat now, propping his violin on his lap as he took to idly twitching about his bow in the air, eyes unfocused. "Yes… That's just it. What changed from that morning to when the migraine came?"

"Which was…?"

"Half past noon. I've been feeling the agitations of boredom for the past few days…"

"…but you are not bored now."

The detective paused. "No. I suppose not. Well, not nearly so much, that's clear."

"So?"

"So I suppose you've distracted me." He pondered aloud, gesturing vaguely to the air. "You, this, the whole situation…"

"_Me_? You can't honestly expect me to stick around the whole day to play distraction for you when you get bored, if that is what you are implying."

"It would only be on occasion, John."

Sherlock must have seen that he was not amused by this.

"I'll have to do some research on the matter… might be an intriguing case study. Comparing the responses of different subjects to boredom, comparing myself to the average brain…"

"I'm going to serve as an example for that second category, aren't I?"

Sherlock met John's gaze. Neither spoke for a time. It was not until they heard the faint tolling of Mrs. Hudson's clock through the wood panelling that they realized how quiet the room was.

"You _really_ had to get rid of every noise then, did you?" John chuckled a little.

"The sounds were all insufferably loud and obnoxious."

"Ah, I see." John nodded in a mockingly thoughtful way. "Well, that clears up things of course. Glad to see my annoyance falls into the same category as refrigerators and clocks. Well, I might just take your advice from earlier and 'get out of here'-"

"I'll come with you." Sherlock jumped up, laying the violin back down in its case and turning to grab his long black coat from the back of the door. "I could use a little fresh air."

The doctor glanced down at his watch, only to give a double-take, "You do realize that is is two o'clock in the morning?"

"Oh?" He glanced down at his own wrist, laying the coat over his right arm, only to discover that there was no watch there for him to look at. With a small noise of remembrance, he returned to the kitchen and upturned one of the calcium-stained beakers that sat face-down on the counter, revealing the _Mathey-Tisso_t beneath. Picking it up and wiping the small amount of residue off of its face, he nodded in acknowledgement of John's statement and pulled the coat on just the same. "Less people around then."

"…right. Fine. Just as long as there aren't any late-night adventures."

"Oh, come now John, those are the best kind."

"…_what_?"

"Nothing."

John narrowed his eyes. Small wrinkles appeared around his flatmate's eyes as he gave a harmless-looking smile.

_The innocent look won't work on me._ John told himself. "Might as well turn off the coffee then."

When he returned to switch the machine off, his foot, by chance, kicked a small thing of plastic, the object rolling towards the other side of the kitchen in response. Taking it from the ground, he frowned at the shape and its contents. He returned to the living room with it in hand, turning its smooth surface amongst his fingers to see if it would catch Sherlock's attention. He suspected that it did, but the detective made no gesture to suggest as much.

"Sherlock, this wouldn't happen to have been a bottle of aspirin at some point, would it?"

From the feigned innocent look that Sherlock maintained to respond with, John knew that he had stumbled across something noteworthy. "Yes, I believe it was."

"Was it not, before, nearly _full_?"

"If you already know these things, why do you find the need for me to confirm them?"

"How about a question I don't know the answer too, then? Where exactly have all the capsule disappeared off to then?"

"I didn't swallow a whole bottle of aspirin, if that is what you are implying." Sherlock didn't miss a beat, so neither did John.

"I know that. You wouldn't be talking to me right now if you did." He regarded Sherlock with his stern, soldier's gaze. "What I am implying is perhaps you nearly tried."

Sherlock chuckled a little at this. "Trust me when I say that if I had that in mind, it would not be a matter of trying. Failing is not one of my best departments, by any means…"

The detective had finished pulling on his gloves, and already pulled the European-looped scarf around his neck, and so rolled from his heels to the balls of his feet in slight impatience.

_Surely he's toying with me._

"Shall we head out then?"

_Is he trying to imply something? He doesn't mean he's thought of it before, does it…? It sounds more like he's trying to say only an idiot would simply try and fail. Maybe… it was that if he did try, there would be no chance of failure. The ideas that come to a distressed man… a very desperate man. Preventing the temptation, perhaps…?_

If John knew that he'd lie awake at night with those same questions in a state of perpetual repetition, he would not have forced himself to swallow the questions he wanted to ask. "Where did you have in mind?"

"Let's see if there is anything particularly interesting going on in Regent's Park. Open space."

John was not exactly in the mood for something 'particularly interesting', but he nodded nonetheless and pulled on his own jacket. "…at least now we are fairly even."

"What do you mean?" Sherlock was already out of the door, and did not even bother to look back at the doctor.

"It was almost a matter of dignity." John confessed, closing the door behind him. "I mean, if a consulting detective with very little medical practice can cure a psychosomatic limp, then I would hope that a Ph.D. medical doctor could get rid of one goddamned headache."

Sherlock chuckled.


End file.
